Tyme's End (6 page)

We walk in silence. I concentrate on keeping in step with him. It's hard, because he's taller than me. I feel giggly and excited and strange. For a while I think I must be really, properly drunk. Then I realise I'm happy.

.

To be honest, I might be drunk as well, because it's only when we're outside the church that I realise where we must be going. I look up at him, but he doesn't meet my gaze. He steers me down the path into the churchyard, towards the back of the church and round the yew tree. There are a couple of tourists in the far corner, talking quietly – a woman staring at the headstone, the other one with his face raised to the sky. I open my mouth, but there's something about the greenness everywhere and the silent graves that makes me shut it again without saying anything. The man takes a photo. The woman says something and they both laugh. She's got a tiny bright yellow flower behind her ear. They start to walk away, as if they've looked for long enough, and the man takes her hand. Then she turns back and flicks the flower on to the grave. It spins as it drops, like a bright yellow propeller.

Oliver is watching them. There's a crease between his eyebrows. He looks like someone reading an exam paper.

But even once they've left, he doesn't go over to the headstone. He disentangles his arm from mine and takes a couple of steps in the other direction, until he's looking at the War Memorial. He says, ‘What's your surname?'

‘Hope.'

He smiles at me unexpectedly, then looks back at the memorial. ‘No Hopes. No Gardners either.'

‘Why should there be?'

He shrugs. ‘I always check. Don't you?'

‘Every time I go past a war memorial?' I'm being sarcastic, but he nods. ‘Er . . . no. I'm pretty sure I haven't died for my country. Is that what we came here to find out?'

I shouldn't have said that, because he stops smiling. ‘No.' He tilts his head towards the dark headstone where the tourists were. ‘No,
that
's what we came for.'

I stand and wait. He walks over to it slowly, and stands looking down at the grass and the tiny yellow flower. His hand beckons me over.

.

HUGO JOHN MARTIN

1894–1936

WATCH YE THEREFORE:

FOR YE KNOW NOT WHEN

THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE COMETH.

.

The silence in this part of the churchyard has a different quality to it: fragile, echoing, like glass. I shake my head and tell myself that's stupid, but I can't get it out of my mind. It's like the air in this corner is thinner. It's harder to breathe.

I say, ‘It's not exactly
beloved husband and father
, is it?'

Oliver smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. ‘He wasn't anyone's husband. Or father.'

‘Oh. I just meant – it's not very . . . comforting. The
watch ye therefore
bit. It's a weird thing to choose.'

‘I think my grandfather chose –' He stops. He makes a quiet, shocked sound, like someone's just punched him in the stomach.

‘Oliver?' In a distant part of my brain I notice that it's the first time I've said his name. I have a stupid, embarrassing desire to say it again.

‘My grandfather. Chose it. He inherited everything, so I guess he –' He reaches out as if he's going to lean on the top of the headstone, and then draws his hand back quickly. ‘I forgot that. He must have – Jesus. I suppose that means he – God, he
knew
–' He's slurring his words.

‘Are you OK?'

‘Yes. Yes, I'm fine. I – something just – occurred to –' He looks at the gravestone, and his mouth moves silently. The look on his face is too complicated to read, as if he's shocked and angry and afraid and – somehow rueful, like someone who's run for a bus and missed it by half a second. As if the epitaph is telling him something he wishes he'd known before.

He starts to laugh, painfully, as if someone's told a joke at his expense.

I say, ‘Er . . . Oliver?'

‘He
knew
,' he says, as if I'll know what he's talking about. ‘My grandfather
knew. The master of the house cometh
. . .' He rubs his face, laughing through his fingers. ‘But what the hell – how –?'

The silence grows in the space between his words. It isn't fragile any more: it feels heavy, merciless, like snow.

Through his hands, Oliver says, ‘Of course. How – simple. He knew because – because he –'

I wait. When he uncovers his face again he looks calm, like a mask.

‘Right,' he says.

‘Right,' I say, mimicking him.

‘Right.' He looks back, just once, at the headstone.

.

WATCH YE THEREFORE:

FOR YE KNOW NOT . . .

.

Then he walks away. He waits for me at the lychgate, but although he gives me a kind of smile he doesn't take my arm again.

.

He leads me back the way we came, down the High Street. At first I think we're going back to Tyme's End, but when we pass the cracked bit of wall, instead of clambering over it, Oliver keeps on walking, a few steps ahead of me, and we follow the road as it winds away to the right and the wall disappears behind a screen of trees and bracken. It's quiet, and the woods rustle around us, full of little noises from the undergrowth. I look up and the leaves are like stained glass, blurred out of shape by the sunlight, all green and gold. I want to ask Oliver where we're going now, but it seems wrong to break the silence. He's striding ahead, his head down, and I have to gallop for a couple of paces to catch up with him.

‘It's beautiful,' I say, breathless.

He frowns, as if I've said something in a foreign language, and then looks round at the web of sunshine on the road, the high trees. ‘Yes,' he says. ‘I guess it is.'

There's the swish of a car, and I look round, but it's coming from a crossroads ahead of us. Oliver pauses for a moment, listening. I stand by his side and he glances at me. He looks paler than he did before, preoccupied. For the first time it's easy to believe that he's twenty-seven.

‘You'd better walk behind me,' he says. ‘This road is dangerous. If a car comes –'

‘I'm not a kid.'

I think he's going to argue with me, but he doesn't. He shrugs and keeps on walking. I feel a perverse surge of disappointment.

We turn left. This road is straight, flat, a wide band of sun-dappled grey narrowing to a point between trees. Oliver speeds up, still walking with his head bowed, his shoulders incongruously hunched as if it's pissing with rain. His hands are in his pockets. The breeze presses his T-shirt into him so that I can see the shape of his back. He breaks into a kind of jog, without taking his hands out of his pockets. He's running in an odd, awkward way, as if he's going up a very steep hill. As if he doesn't want time to think about where he's going.

Then he stops. He leans forward to catch his breath. There's a little shadow of damp in the small of his back. I can feel the sweat sliding down the back of my neck too, like fingers. I'm thirsty.

‘Over there,' he says, clearing his throat and tilting his head towards a little clearing a few metres from the edge of the road.

He doesn't move. I look at him, then pick my way through the bracken, stepping over fallen branches and avoiding bits of bramble. The stone is a kind of flattened prism of sandstone, not quite a plaque.
H. J. MARTIN WAS FOUND DEAD ON THIS SPOT, 21st JUNE 1936
.

I stand in front of it, not knowing what to do. If I were with Mum or Dad I'd say, ‘Big deal.' I look round at Oliver, hoping that he'll say something.

He doesn't meet my gaze. He's got a distant expression on his face, like he's listening to something I can't hear. He says, ‘No one knows what happened.'

‘I thought it was a motorcycle accident.'

His eyes flick to mine and away again. ‘It was. But – he shouldn't have come off. He wasn't going particularly fast. He knew the road, and it's straight and level, and there wasn't any traffic. It was early in the morning, but it was probably already light. No one even knows where he was going.'

I'm about to say, ‘So?' but I manage to stop myself. I say instead, ‘People have accidents. They just do.'

‘Yes,' he says, but he doesn't sound like he's agreeing.

I say, as gently as I can, ‘Does it matter?'

‘What really happened? Does that matter?' He takes a step towards the memorial stone. ‘I don't know.' He reaches out, even though the stone isn't close enough to touch. ‘You said, about your real mother – if you knew, one way or the other . . .'

‘That's –' I breathe in. ‘That's different.'

‘Why?'

‘Because – that matters to
me
.' I wish he'd look at me. ‘She was my mother, and – this is different. This happened seventy years ago. He'd be dead by now anyway. And it's not like you knew him. Everyone who knew him must be dead by now.'

He stays where he is. I don't even know if he's listening to me. The trees whisper around us. I wish I knew what he was thinking. I wish I knew why he'd brought me here.

All of a sudden he twists to look at me, so quickly that twigs crack under his feet. His eyes don't quite focus on my face. ‘If you knew, for sure, one way or the other – suppose you knew, for sure, that she'd killed herself . . .'

I say, ‘Yes?'

But he doesn't finish what he was going to say. He says slowly, ‘I think it does matter. I wish it didn't. But I think it does.'

It's hard to keep track of what he's saying. ‘You mean, if my mother had –?'

‘No.' A split-second shake of his head. ‘Of course, but that's not what I mean.' He gestures at the memorial.
H. J. MARTIN WAS FOUND DEAD ON THIS SPOT
. ‘Suppose it wasn't an accident? Suppose it happened because –'

He stops. He shakes his head again, as if there's an insect buzzing in his ears.

I swallow. The heat surrounds me, suddenly oppressive. My mouth tastes stale and sour, tacky with sugar. I say, ‘Shall we go back? I'm thirsty.'

It's as if he hasn't heard me. Maybe he hasn't.

‘My grandfather knew H. J. Martin. They were friends. My grandfather was Martin's heir,' he says, and his words are quiet, precise, without any trace of the American accent he had before. ‘He inherited Tyme's End, and – and a lot of money. A huge amount of money. And he –'

There's a pause, filled with birdsong and a siren from a long way away. I feel dizzy, unreal, as if I'm not really here. And Oliver is staring into the middle distance as if someone's standing in front of him.

‘I think my grandfather murdered H. J. Martin,' he says.

There's another split-second silence. He turns to me and he's smiling, like he knows that what he just said is ridiculous, melodramatic, unbelievable.

I say, ‘Er . . .'

And then suddenly he spins on his heel, ducks behind a tree, and I hear him vomiting.

.

.

V

.

.

I don't know what to do. I push my hands into the back pockets of my jeans and kick at the bracken, so that if he looks round he'll see that I'm not watching. He coughs wetly, and I hear liquid splattering on to the ground. There's a pause, and I think it's over. Then he gasps and makes a kind of rasping, barking noise. He spits, and makes another noise, halfway between a sigh and a groan. I look at him, in spite of myself, and he's wiping his mouth on his forearm. He glances up but I can't tell if he's seen me or not. He pushes his hair off his forehead with his other hand, and it sticks up, clumpy with sweat. He stands up, bracing himself against the tree. He says, ‘God. Excuse me.'

‘Are you all right?'

He smiles, coughs, and spits again. He digs at the earth with his toe, wincing. ‘Of course. Can't you tell?'

‘OK,' I say. ‘Stupid question.'

‘I didn't mean that,' he says, but it doesn't sound like he cares much, one way or the other. ‘Look – let's go.'

I nod. He walks past me and down the road the way we came. I follow him. I feel faintly sick too, as if it's contagious. I want a drink of water. My T-shirt is sticking to me.

‘I'm sorry,' he says, without looking round, so the words are almost blown away by the warm breeze. ‘I shouldn't have brought you here. It was a really bad idea.'

I hurry to catch up with him, feeling the sweat break out on my forehead. ‘Wait. Will you
wait
, please, Oliver –'

He slows down and stops, but he's still staring straight ahead. There's a long blotch of damp on the side of his chest and I can smell alcohol.

‘What you said,' I say. ‘About your grandfather. Did you –'

‘Forget it.'

‘So you didn't mean it?'

He looks at me. His expression is so hostile it's bewildering, as if the last few hours haven't happened. ‘Just
forget it
.'

‘But –'

‘It doesn't matter. Isn't that what you said? It doesn't
matter
. What difference does it make to anyone? They're both dead. And there's no evidence. No evidence that would – there's
no
evidence. What are you going to do, run and tell the H. J. Martin Society?' He holds my gaze until I look away. Then he whistles tunelessly through his teeth, and adds, ‘They're nutters anyway. Half of them think he's going to come back in England's hour of need, like King Arthur.'

I wait until I trust my voice not to crack. ‘I'm not going to tell anyone. I just – is it true?'

He takes a deep breath. ‘Is it true that I believe it, or is it
true
?'

‘Do you believe it? That your grandfather murdered H. J. Martin?'

He thinks for a moment. Then he says, ‘Yes.'

We keep walking. I feel like the ground is sliding in the opposite direction, like a treadmill, so we're going slower than we should. The silence goes on and on, and things rustle and watch us from the bushes. It's too hot and too quiet. I can't think of anything to say. It's as if Oliver is somewhere else, and the gap's too big to shout across.

At the cracked bit of wall, he turns to me and says, ‘You'd better go home.'

‘My stuff's still over there.' I point towards the place where we sat to drink the whisky and Coke.

He stands aside without answering and gives me a businesslike hand to get over the wall. I want to stand on the other side and watch him climb over after me, but I trudge through the long grass and collect my biscuit tin and torch and books and empty plastic bottle. Oliver's shadow falls on my hands and I pick up his rucksack and pass it to him. He doesn't thank me.

I stand up with my arms full of stuff. He's got his rucksack over his shoulder. When I look at him, he glances away.

‘You've got to stop coming here,' he says. ‘I'm going to get someone to do something about that wall, and the railings. You won't be able to get in.'

I stare at him. ‘What?'

‘I'd better be off. Nice to've met you,' he says, picking a stalk of grass and rubbing it between his fingers. ‘Apologise to your parents for me.'

‘What? You're going now?' I say.

‘Yeah.' He still won't meet my gaze. ‘Thanks for the drink.'

I don't say anything. There's nothing I can say.

‘Right then,' he says. ‘Can you get over the wall with all that stuff or shall I help you with it?'

I want to throw it at him, bit by bit. I imagine hurling the biscuit tin last of all, how it would hit his head with a resounding clang. ‘You're going,' I say, keeping my voice flat. ‘Right now.'

‘I should catch my train.'

‘What time does it leave?'

‘It –' He hesitates. ‘I'll go down to the station and get the next one. They go every half-hour or so, don't they? Bibi, I should –'

I don't know why, but the way he says my name goes straight to my gut, like a knife. It punctures something I didn't know was there.

I hear myself say, ‘Don't go. Not right now. Please don't. Stay a bit longer. Stay until this evening. Please.'

‘Bibi, I have to – look, it wasn't a good idea to –'

‘Please.
Please
.'

Finally, he looks at me.

‘You don't have to go right now,' I say. I can feel the biscuit tin slowly slipping out of my grasp. ‘Please. It doesn't have to be horrible.'

‘It's a complete disaster,' he says. ‘I shouldn't be here. I should never have come.'

I can't think of anything else to say. ‘Please.' My heart is beating so hard I can feel the fabric of my T-shirt trembling.

He looks down at me. He's squinting because of the sun, but his eyes are the colours of wood, amber and mahogany and green. He looks at me for so long I'm scared of what he can see in my face. Then he sighs and tilts his head back, defeated. ‘I can't stay for long,' he says. ‘I do, I really do have to go.'

I feel the air fill my lungs. ‘I just –' I swallow. ‘I just think you should buy me a drink, because it's your turn and I'm thirsty.'

He laughs: a helpless, abrupt laugh, like a release. ‘Fine. Let's go to the pub.'

We look at each other. His eyes flicker, reading my face. Then he turns away.

As we walk I glance up at him. It's as if he notices my look, because he smiles and adds, ‘I'm only buying you lemonade, mind.'

‘Whisky and Coke,' I say. ‘It's only fair.'

‘Coke.'

‘Shandy.'

‘Oh, all right, shandy.' He reaches out and squeezes the back of my neck. ‘Hey. How come I offer to buy you a drink and you
negotiate
? Honestly. The kids of today.'

I laugh. I walk very carefully, not making any sudden movements, because I don't think he realises that he's still got his hand on my neck and I don't want him to take it away. And he doesn't. He keeps it there, right up until we have to climb over the wall.

.

The beer garden of the Cloven Hoof is full of people – all tourists, though, no one I know – so I end up sitting on the wall under the horse chestnut tree while Oliver buys the drinks. The ground is covered with little scraps of brown flowers that stick to the soles of my shoes. I lean back against the trunk of the tree, looking up through the leaves. There's a wood pigeon somewhere, hooting and hooting as if it's trying to make everyone go away.

When Oliver comes back his face is wet, as if he's washed it, and he's carrying a tray with two tall glasses of water and a packet of crisps as well as our drinks. He balances it carefully on the wall and then levers himself up. He says, ‘I seem to have done an awful lot of climbing on walls today. One of the waters is yours, so you don't get dehydrated.'

‘Thanks.' I drink half of it in one go, and then reach for the shandy. Oliver does the same, and we clink our glasses. ‘Cheers.'

For a moment it's like we're on holiday. Oliver lights a cigarette. I open the crisps – I'm starving – and realise I haven't had lunch.

We sit without talking until Oliver's flicked his cigarette away and I've finished the crisps. Then I close my eyes and lean back, half asleep, content.

‘I'm not very good company,' he says, after a while.

I open my eyes and squint at him sideways. ‘Aren't you?'

He hunches his shoulders, reaches for his cigarettes and then stops himself. ‘I mean – God, you must think I'm crazy.
I
think I'm crazy.'

‘No. Mysterious. Enigmatic. A bit angst-ridden. A tall dark stranger with a past.' I make a face at him.

‘I can't think straight. I don't know what I'm doing here.'

I pick up my glass and tap the rim against my teeth. ‘Having a quiet civilised drink with a friend?'

He shakes his head at me, but he's smiling. ‘Not what I meant, but –'

I grin. Now we're here and not at Tyme's End, some of the tension that was in his face seems to have relaxed. And he didn't contradict me when I said
friend
. . .

He sits up straighter and finishes his beer. ‘Enough about me. What are
you
doing here? Shouldn't you be with your own friends? Drinking cider on street corners or something? Isn't this a bit middle-aged?'

‘None of my friends live in Falconhurst. Mum has to drive me to school, so . . . They all live miles away.'

He raises his eyebrows. ‘What do you do in the holidays?'

‘Sometimes I stay at their houses for a night. Or we meet in town, when Dad can give me a lift. Or I catch the train.' My voice has gone hard and defensive, although I don't know why. ‘Anyway, I don't mind.'

‘And the rest of the time? Don't you get lonely?'

‘I like being on my own,' I say. ‘I go to Tyme's End, and I read, and think, and –'

He's staring at me. When he sees that I've noticed, he looks away, with a kind of gentle, anxious expression that makes me angrier.

‘I'm fine,' I say. ‘I'm
fine
. I
like
being on my own. I –'

He doesn't answer.

‘Anyway,' I say, ‘it's not like there's anything I can do about it. So my friends all live miles away. It's not a big deal.'

He nods. I wish I hadn't mentioned Tyme's End. I finish my drink. I put the glass down next to his, but he's gazing at the ground and doesn't notice. He's drawing patterns in the withered horse chestnut blossoms with his foot.

He says, ‘Tell me about your parents.'

It takes me a second to understand the words. ‘What?'

‘Your parents. Your real parents. What were they like?'

‘I told you. My dad died, and my mum –'

‘No, I mean, what were they
like
?' He kicks gently at a wad of pale brown petals on the ground.

‘My dad was a engineer. He went to Israel after he left university. He was called Alan. My mum was called Munira. She was sort of dumpy-looking. She was clever. My grandparents were really proud of her.' I shrug. ‘What do you want to know?'

‘Do you remember them?'

‘I – well, not my dad. And – you know when you think you can remember things, but you've been told about them so often you don't know if you're remembering or imagining them?'

‘Yes.'

‘Well, I can picture my mum like that. I think I remember her playing with me. I can picture her bedroom. I stuffed a lampshade with tissues because it looked pretty and she was angry with me. We saw a house on fire once.' I kick my heels against the wall, slowly: right, left, right, left. ‘I don't remember her dying.'

‘Do you have photos and things?'

There's something strange in his voice, like the answer means a lot to him.

‘A couple. Most of them are in photo albums and I can look at them, but I'm not allowed to take them out until I'm eighteen, in case I lose them.' There's a pause. I wish he'd say something. I can feel the matter-of-fact look on my face start to crack like varnish.

He nods. He reaches for his cigarettes again. I watch him take one out and light it. After he's lit it he turns his lighter over and over in his hands. His fingers leave smears on the silver.

‘I've got a lot of . . . research,' I say. ‘I call it that, anyway. It's stupid, but – I haven't shown anyone, ever. Maps and pictures and things. Because –' I'm glad he's not looking at me. ‘They're nice, Mum and Dad, I'm not being ungrateful, they didn't have to take me in, and – but I don't belong here. It's not . . .
mine
.'